


Purpose

by quiet__tiger



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 17:19:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10644480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quiet__tiger/pseuds/quiet__tiger
Summary: Batman faces something he's having trouble accepting, and Superman tries to comfort him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Mind-blowing experience.
> 
> Originally posted to Livejournal Mar. 13th, 2007.

Superman descended the stairs into the Batcave, his steps echoing more forlornly than normal, though that had to be his imagination. The stairs opened into the dark Cave, and Clark followed the line of shadows that led to the computer console. Batman sat there in the darkness, staring at the monitors.

Or maybe staring through them.

Superman glanced at the screens, then turned away from the grisly images displayed on them. A glance was all anyone ever needed of that freakish, wide, red grin, the soulless eyes, and the inhuman white skin.

How Batman could keep them up, picture after picture after picture of that face and his crimes, Superman didn’t know.

He didn’t think Batman knew, either.

Superman’s arrival wasn’t verbally acknowledged, and he hadn’t expected it to be. He’d learned to accept head tilts and the tensing of shoulders as greetings. Just the way things were.

He stood between the wall of monitors and the chair Batman was slouched in, forcing Batman’s attention to break. “Don’t do this.”

The response was low, but he didn’t sound angry. “I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re sitting in the dark obsessing over what happened, what you could have done. And you couldn’t have done anything.”

“If I’d been faster, or had caught him earlier when I had the chance…”

Superman crossed his arms over his chest. “What happened happened. He’s finally gone, and you don’t have to worry about him. You should be content.”

“No, I _shouldn’t_.” Was emotion a good sign at this juncture? “I could have saved him. And I hesitated.”

“Anyone would have! He’d killed three people and then lured you into a trap. He slipped when distracted by his own errors. He’s tormented you for years, killed and injured people you loved. Even if you had pushed him off that catwalk yourself, no one would blame you.”

“I would never push him off.” Batman stood and started to pace. “What if I missed him on purpose? My line was only off by a few inches. I could have done that willingly. I didn’t think I’d ever let anyone die, even him, but I could have.” Batman kept glancing at the monitors, gruesome images creating a horrific mural of red, green, and white. But mostly red. “I just never thought this day would come. Wondered what it’d be like, figured we’d manage to kill each other at the same time, something like that, but I never thought…”

“I don’t know what you must be feeling. He’s been a big part of your life for years. For as long as you’ve been Batman. It would be like if Luthor died.”

“I wasn’t even sure he _could_ die.” He didn’t mean Luthor. “He just kept coming back, and back, and back…” Batman stopped pacing and looked at one monitor showing a bloody crime scene, corpses with nightmarish grins smiling for the camera. Superman looked away again, disturbed by the intense focus Batman gave the picture. “He was so twisted, so maniacal.”

Superman frowned. There was a fine line between disgust and reverence. “Exactly. Which is why Gotham is better off that he’s dead. _You’re_ better off.”

“You know he thought we played a game? He does something, I stop it, he goes to Arkham, he escapes, and then it was all repeated.” Now he sounded thoughtful, but also as if he was just finally voicing what he’d wanted to say for some time. “He liked it. He wanted to _see_ me. Only me. I fascinated him, maybe moreso than he fascinates me.”

Superman didn’t want to ask, but… “Did you? Did you like the game?”

Batman turned sharply and was in front of him in two strides. “ _No_ ,” he hissed in Superman’s face, “I didn’t like the game. I didn’t like chasing him down, I didn’t like the way he slaughtered mercilessly and without discrimination, and I certainly didn’t like seeing my work amount to nothing as he just upped the ante every time he escaped from that useless pile of bricks.”

“Then you should be _glad_ he’s dead.” Right?

“It’s complicated.”

Superman couldn’t help but be a little annoyed. “Then _explain_ it to me.”

Batman was still in his face, and he could see the way different emotions flitted through his blue eyes. “You said it yourself: we’ve been through it all together. So many arguments that I created him, he created me. I gave him purpose, he gave _me_ purpose…”

What the hell was the counter argument to _that_? Batman rarely listened to counter arguments, anyway.

“I didn’t even get the satisfaction of watching him rot slowly in a cell. He was just a broken body underneath a catwalk. I didn’t get what I’d been wanting for so long. He wasn’t served justice. He was just _unlucky_ …”

“Bruce…” Superman pushed back the cowl so he could better see Bruce’s face. “You don’t need him. There’s still plenty of crime without him out there! He’s not the only whacko your city has!” That was supposed to be comforting?

Bruce looked away, somewhere past his shoulder. “It’s not the same, Clark. Holmes and Moriarty. Hatfield and McCoy. Hell, Tom and Jerry. Consumption. Purpose.”

“Bruce…” And he enveloped him in an embrace, because though Bruce never asked for a hug, it was evident that he really needed one. “Even if you hung up your cape today, you’d have a purpose. You might forget it sometimes, but you have friends and family. You provide millions in charity every year. You have done more for one city than any man in history. You do not need to repeatedly chase a psychopath around to give you purpose.”

A silence, and then a very quiet, “I know.” To Clark’s surprise, Bruce buried himself further into Clark’s body. “You just, ever think about a day for so long that when it comes you don’t know how to handle it?”

“One of those things, Bruce.” But it _wasn’t_. The Joker was the bane of Batman’s existence. And he was gone. He’d paralyzed Barbara, killed Jason, and he was gone. He’d very obviously had some sort of feelings for Batman, if the comments he’d witnessed and the actions he’d experienced and if what Dick and Tim had told him were any indication. Bruce more than likely understood that as well, and Clark didn’t even want to think of the possibility that Bruce could return them. There was more than anyone could see going on between Joker and Batman, eternal conflict and yet a need for each other.

Clark tried to understand it, but he didn’t get anywhere. Bruce was fucked up. Even _before_ his greatest wish and greatest fear were realized. All of his training, discipline, _everything_ , and he couldn’t figure out how to let go when his nemesis was finally out of the picture.

“Bruce, come on, let’s let all the ugliness go. He’s gone. Finally. Don’t over-think it. You did what you could. You’re still you. Don’t let him get to you even in death. You know it’s exactly what he’d want, and when did the Joker ever deserve anything he wanted?”

“Never.” Silence other than bats fluttering nearby. “I’ll put this behind me. I just need time to make it real.”

“Take all the time you need.” There would never be enough time, not with the way Bruce tended to brood on things for far too long. But sooner or later he’d get beyond his initial shock, and let relief sink in. Put himself back together. Maybe even better than he was before. Put some of his obsession to rest.

But Clark had no intention of holding his breath for any of that. He settled for just holding Bruce and giving him something to hold onto in return. Over the years that had become _his_ purpose. Happily.


End file.
